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Captioned Images Series: Take That Off 2
Created: 08/24/2025
Elliot stood in the doorway of the bedroom, arms folded across his chest, glaring at his roommate. Both of them wore the same thing: navy blue skirt, sky blue halter top, gray tights, and black pumps with a two inch heel.
“Dean, you’ve gotta change,” Elliot said flatly. “We can’t both go out like this.”
Dean, sitting on the edge of his bed tying his laces, didn’t even look up. “Why? It’s not like we’re going to prom. It’s just a bar.”
“That’s not the point,” Elliot shot back, stepping into the room. “People are going to think we planned this. We’ll look like—like some kind of matching couple.”
Dean smirked. “Maybe we’ll get a discount on drinks. Two-for-one special.”
Elliot’s jaw tightened. “I’m serious, man. One of us has to change. I called this top last night. You saw me lay it out.”
Dean finally looked up, eyes glinting. “You don’t call clothes like shotgun. This isn’t a video game character select screen.”
The air between them sharpened.
“I’m not changing,” Dean said.
“Neither am I,” Elliot snapped.
And that was the spark.
In a flash, Elliot lunged for the dresser, yanking open drawers, tossing tops and skirts onto the floor. Dean shot up and tried to block him. They shoved each other, tripping over a heap of laundry, one elbow clipping a lamp and nearly knocking it over.
“You’re impossible!” Elliot shouted, gripping Dean’s hem like he could peel the skirt off him by force.
“Let go, psycho!” Dean yelled back, twisting away.
The fight tumbled onto the bed, the mattress squeaking under the weight of their stubbornness. It wasn’t violent so much as frantic—two men too proud to give in, wrestling more out of principle than anger.
Finally, Dean managed to pin Elliot’s shoulders. Both were panting, hair messed up, halter stretched out of shape.
“This is insane,” Dean said, half laughing, half breathless. “We’re gonna wreck the place over a top.”
Elliot, still struggling under his grip, stopped. He exhaled, cheeks flushed, then started to laugh too—short, unwilling bursts that grew louder.
A beat of silence passed, broken only by their laughter and the hum of the ceiling fan.
“Fine,” Elliot muttered, still chuckling. “We both change. Happy?”
Dean rolled off him, grinning. “Only if we wear skater dresses instead.”
Elliot groaned. “You’re the worst.”
But twenty minutes later, when they finally walked out the door—both in blindingly loud floral dresses in different colors—it was hard to tell if they’d lost the fight or won it together.
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